Monthly Archives: February 2018
It was a cold December morning in the fine year of two thousand and twenty three; the day of great ungratefulness. We find the Ottoman Empire lying about in ruins due to the one million tasseled, miniscule chest lobed llamas protest march.
Disease ran rampant across the land – followed by the police in hot pursuit. The Queen of Gomorra, Queen Harlot, seeing the scores of super cute (yet highly underappreciated) panties being neglected questionably offered a decree to all stores in the land to hold a discount sale in an attempt to find the panties good homes.
The moon was observed to exist and the gourd stocks rose exponentially. In those days, masses of people boarded any boats and ships available to make the arduous and fruitless sail from New York and then back to New York again – making no progress in their distance from shore.
In the presence of weakness of world governments around the globe, one dictator, Mr. Ganglylegs III, rose to arms, soon after realized he had current ownership of two arms already and needed not a third, sat back down to tea and crumpets.
Queen Harlot was impressed by the unimpressiveness of Mr. Ganglylegs III and sent a message to the dictator via pigeon to happen upon a possible dinner meeting. The dictator, always one to never turn down a chance for a free meal, accepted the invitation.
Over cheesecake and a bit of “political” copulation, Queen Harlot and Mr. Ganglylegs III designed a Breakfast Committee that, to this day, still affects breakfast menus. Hence those annoying gnats that flutter over rotten fruits.
At the year’s end, it was the gypsy camps found in the middle of the woods, downtown Cambridge, that unearthly visitors visited and shared with the local vole museum curators technologies that would turn the page of the downtrodden economy.
Among the host of things shared, it would be the reusable teabag filter filtration system (patented in 1679) used for battery operated, commercial grade backpack type leaf blowers used by people wearing French maid outfits that would prove to be most beneficial.
After the three blind mice reclaimed their tails, corn began to seemingly grow from the ground in which it was planted. This led to such things such as roofers losing random nails in people’s yards, “B” words would officially begin with the letter “B”, and “poverty rates” would be used to describe the financial status of a population.
The following year, in two thousand and twenty two, married couples lived together. Figurative and literal compensation was awarded to men and women whose occupation was to take orders and give assistance in elevators in what was coined as tips.
In conclusion, it is easy to understand how the decisions and the effects of those decisions have made it increasingly difficult to find good web domains for websites. Evicting goblins stealing socks will help prevent a stressful living condition in the household.
Lately, I’ve been thinking off and on about the subject of death. Just one of those random things you find yourself pondering and begin to formulate a list of questions about. So here’s some of what I’ve been wondering:
- GOD. All through the ages, people of every culture has had, or currently has, some sort of belief or idea about what happens to a person after they leave this carbon based vessel we call a body.
But what is really waiting for us on the other side? Will we reincarnate? Go to a good place or a bad place? Or do we simply just cease to be? Do we follow blind faith or should we accept the fact we have ended this miracle we know as life and are resigned to nothing more than pushing up the daisies?
This is all up for debate, of course. You talk to one person and their belief is the only way to believe, the next person believes something completely different, but with the same attitude, and then the next person really has no idea or doesn’t even care.
Anyway, I think it’s worth giving some study and meditation to. In the end, however, I think it just boils down to – to each their own. But enough of that! Moving along . . . .
- PAIN. I have read, once upon a time, that it has been suggested that several minutes (or perhaps longer) after we draw our last breath, the brain cells continue to fire. So what I am wondering here is, say the person dies in a horrible accident; a house fire, for example.
Let’s say they pass away from smoke inhalation, but the fire quickly catches up to them. Use your imagination here . . . Now, we would say that at least they went out easy before the worst caught up to them.
However, based upon the above mentioned (I’m going to call it) theory, does the brain still recognize the pain? I ask, because although we feel pain at its source, the pain itself is registered by the brain telling you something is not right at such and such location.
Admittedly, this is a horrifying and terrible thought to even think about, but when pondering a topic such as this such things do come to mind, unfortunately. But enough of the gruesomeness. Moving on . . . again.
- Thoughts and Dreams. Going again on the “theory” that the brain continues to go on some time after death, then one must consider what the brain actually thinks about.
Does it recognize that death has occurred? Does it think about memories, things the person needs to do (not trying to be funny, btw.). I wouldn’t think so. It seems to me that the mind would carry on more in a dream state before, for a lack of a better phrase, fading away.
To support this crazy idea the brain is still working beyond becoming deceased, we can go back to the days of public executions a few centuries ago with testimonies of an executioner who would asked the beheaded head to blink if the beheading hurt or not.
The executioner had to be quick to get the answer he needed before losing the chance for the head to reply (thirty seconds or less I believe). Based on this, then it does help support the idea of the brain continuing to work after death.
But here’s a more realistic view: I have never personally heard of a deceased person (before the onset of rigor mortis) have restless leg syndrome, muscle spasms, or the need to scratch an itch.
And, personally, even if the brain loses control over the body it governs, I believe it is possible for the synapsis of the nerve endings to fire. The length of time this goes on and to what degree from one person to the next is up for debate.
Let me go on to say, I have never done any extensive research on the matter. This is in no way anything more than just me thinking out loud. But I would be interested in hearing what your thoughts are! So let me know in the comments below! So, ’till next time, I bid you . . . adieu!
Here is one of the short stories that can be found in Section Three of my book, Komplex Sinplicities; available on Kindle and paperback. Enjoy!
Jason stopped somewhere in the woods; heaving chestfuls of air into his burning lungs. Through the hills he could hear dogs barking and the trampling of horses. Men were yelling—their voices echoing on the wind through the trees. His knees were burning from exhaustion and his body was shaking from the rush of adrenaline.
Bending over with his hands on his knees he looked back from whence he came.
“Jason,” she said calmly.
Startled, Jason stumbled backwards; his arms waving about aimlessly. He did not see the old woman before, nor did he hear her approach. That would have been easy with the dead leaves covering the ground.
“Who . . . Who are you? How do you know my name?” he asked, the barking of the dogs getting a little closer.
“Never mind who I am, Jason. What is important now is who you are, and that we leave this place immediately.”
Jason looked at the old woman. She was shorter than him. Her long gray hair wiry and course. She wore peasant clothes; ragged and in many layers.
The sounds of the approaching hounds seemed hungry, but more distant now. Jason took to his feet and followed the hag briskly through the trees and over the hills. He couldn’t remember the moment when they began moving.
Jason had no memory up to the woods. He only knew he was a wanted man. He was running for his life for fear of something that would be far worse than death. And here he was—traveling with a stranger he had only met moments before that was unaffected by the terrain and their speed. She was, indeed, going very fast for a person of her years; unusually so.
The coming party a bit more distant with the passing of each hill, but something caught his attention in a field below that made him stop dead in his tracks.
Soldiers. Oblivious to them, but very interested in those under their guard. A path of well trodden ground came from between the hills and entered the clearing and made a large oval shape; spiraling towards its middle with a small circle ending the oddity.
Jason saw what appeared to be peasants on their hands and knees in the path of dirt and mud. Men and women, all scantily clothed, each pushing a very large rock. They were spaced at irregular intervals. Though they were all going the same direction they didn’t seem to be moving forward, but rather stayed put; struggling to move the stones they were enslaved to.
“What is this madness?” Jason asked.
The old woman stepped closer to him. “It is a punishment. There is nothing we can do for them.”
Jason turned to look at her and she met his gaze with fierce intensity. “A punishment for what?” he demanded.
“They are the sons and daughters of the gods and goddesses. They are the chosen ones the gods used for whatever the reason they needed them. This has been the fate of many from many different temples. Even the angels and demons are equals here.”
Jason was confused. He looked back at the people below and he could hear their sadness from the moaning and weeping that floated up to them.
“What have they done? Why are they being punished?”
“For being who they are,” answered the hag. “Nothing more than that. They will push their stones to the middle of the spiral. No one knows what happens beyond that.”
“Wha . . . What do you mean no one knows what happens?”
The woman moved closer to stand beside him. “I do not have the answer, boy. Those that have crawled the path will deny its very existence. It is said twas the fate of Adam and Eve. It is rumored that even Zeus, himself, once took upon a stone. They never sleep. They can not eat. And they never leave their stone.”
She turned and began to walk away. “Come, Jason. As curious as this may all be, your fate will be much worse than theirs if we do not keep going.”
Section Three is my favorite section. I must admit, it was very difficult for me in deciding which story to share. Thank you for reading,
Here I’m gonna share with you one of the scared scrolls of prophecies from Section Two of my book, Komplex Sinplicities; available on Kindle and paperback. Enjoy!
LOST SCROLL OF THE ABHORED NATIONS
There shall be professional weepers who will roam the land, and we shall pay them tribute for having went far and wide in their travels.
And we can rest assured that they will become disgustingly annoyed with the whole bit and shall put their weeping aside and seek therapy for doing such a silly thing in the first place.
And it shall come to pass in those days when the poultry will begin to randomly lay eggs at random places at random times throughout the day and night . . . randomly.
Yea, there shall be an albino jabberwocky with a gastrointestinal disorder whose flatulence will cause the fruit bearing trees within the immediate vicinity of the discharge to produce thrice their normal yield lest they firstly go barren.
Look not to put thy faith in any goat farmer whose stench is greater than that of his livestock. Nor shall thou also believeth his words when he proclaims unto the political leaders of the nations that communal free range goat farming is the answer to the world’s economical problems.
Do not ill mindedly burn a thing that doth not belong to you. For the owner may do something horrific back to you; like splash milk on you that has the consistency of kangaroo semen.
But not the consistency of kangaroo semen of today, but rather the consistency of kangaroo semen of the late 1930’s; particularly that of mid 1937 around June . . . or perhaps even July between the morning hours of 7:30 and 9:30 Mountain Standard Time.
Woe be unto the task masters that knoweth not of the tasks they are to be tasking! This will be a fearful day! For there will be great confusion in the land and many people who laboreth to provide a proper meal for their families will become unlabored in their tiresome efforts as they are seen in their confusion as unfit to perform their daily tasks.
And it should be so noted the unemployment rate shall dramatically rise to the ascending motion of increase.
Blessed are the pig tail eaters. For they know good food when others know not of it.
Blessed are the drain cleaners. For they shall inherit their filth unwantingly.
. . . and there ya have it. Thanks for reading,
Komplex Sinplicities is comprised of three different sections. Here are just a few samples of poetry from Section One of my book; which is available on Kindle and paperback. Enjoy!
Alas! My fair lady . . .
As I cast my gaze upon you,
I look into the eyes of someone
far more beautiful than beauty itself.
Should the angels in heaven
be so jealous of a kinder nature!
ODE TO THE PIGGY
The bacon on my plate,
it smells really good.
It’s the most de-lish
in the whole neighborhood!
But let’s take a minute,
let’s take some time,
to see how the piggy
has allowed me to dine.
Let’s se-e-e how the porkers die!
Piggy and his friends
are loaded off a truck.
They’re met by some men
who want to beat them up.
Sometimes a little piggy
will sense the end of time.
And piggy goes all crazy
in attempt for him to shine.
The pi-i-ig will lose his mind!
They check the truck for babies
the piggies leave behind.
They toss ’em in a chamber
and gas ’em till they die.
They’re sold to the schools
for the kids to have some fun.
So pick up your scalpels,
and cut out piggies tongue!
Let’s cho-o-op the oinkers up!
But back to the piggies,
and on down the line,
they’re headed down a ramp,
and for the final time.
They’re hit with electrodes
that give them quite a shock.
It blows out their rump holes,
and then they’re hung on hooks.
It’s ti-i-ime to bleed ’em dry!
They cut the piggies throats,
and let them bleed all out.
It pours into drains
the sewers carry out.
They singe off their hair,
and continue down the line
where the workers slice them up
unrecognizable as swine.
They u-u-use some sharp ass knives!
The workers cut them up
into things you like to eat.
And what’s not in byproduct
are things like ears and feet.
Sometimes the workers test
the sharpness of their knives,
and they’ll cut off a finger
to contaminate the lines.
They’re sa-a-aved before they die!
What you may not know
is piggies like pork too.
For if a piggy dies
he’s put in piggy food.
It may be the reason
to the question “Why?”
that sometimes little piggy
will lose his freak’n mind.
Let’s la-a-augh at the crazy swine!
Some folks eat meat,
and other people don’t.
I don’t care either way.
Whatever floats your boat.
But if it may be bacon,
or sausage on the grill,
LONG LIVE THE PIGGY!
The “oinkers”, if you will.
Long li-i-ive a tasty meal!
near and far,
I like my blood cells
where they are.
Beautiful fireflies dancing all around.
Ever so pretty until dead they are found.
. . . thank you for reading,